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What can I say? It’s been a busy week. And next week is stacking up to be just as bad. What that means is I was brain dead when it came time to come up with a blog post this week. So, I decided to get into the Way Way Back Machine, and where I came out was February, 2012. It was a simpler time then. There was a sane, black man in the White House, and I was attending The University of Oklahoma in pursuit of my second masters degree. With that in mind, what follows was a weekly class assignment for one of my feminism classes. No, I was not a feminism major, but you might say it was a minor. But, that part’s boring. Every week we were tasked with writing reports on the week’s reading. I chose this particular one because I’ve always liked the Virginia Woolf quote. And because, writing. Good luck next week, there might be new material then. Only time will tell.

…”give her a room of her own and five hundred a year, let
her speak her mind and leave out half that she now puts in, and she will write
a better book one of these days” (Woolf, 1929)[i]. Though not quite as forthright as Helene
Cixous in The Laugh of the Medusa but
the point is the same: leave women alone
and let them write. Cixous points out
that often women don’t write because they don’t feel that their writing is good
enough but she calls upon women to
write in order that their voices be heard in this phallocentric world.

The work is quite clearly a call to arms, so to speak, to
all women to not be afraid of their creativity, whatever way that creativity
expresses itself. Cixous uses sexual
metaphors repeatedly to express her point.
She equates writing in secret with masturbation, which, in a way, it
is. It is a way of expressing yourself,
of releasing pent-up feelings, of letting yourself go. Cixous wants women to no longer be afraid of
their bodies or their minds. She wants
women to follow whatever desires they have because if they don’t no one is
going to do it for them. The only way to
survive in this man’s world is to finally speak out and be heard. Cixous is trying to rouse women to action
with her stirring words. It’s a pep talk
of phallic proportions.

I think the comparison to Woolf is an accurate one, as Woolf
also wanted women to write. She wanted
women to write the works of genius she knew they were capable of and wanted
women to know they had permission to do so.
But her main point was that in order to create these works of genius
women needed privacy and security, two things women often lacked. She also wanted women to appreciate the works
of those who came before. She extolled
women to pay homage to their foremothers for having the courage to write and
pave the way.[ii] Cixous, however, mainly just wanted women to
not let anyone hold them back. She knew
that woman was her own worst enemy.

[ii] “Jane
Austen should have laid a wreath upon the grave of Fanny Burney, George Eliot
done homage to the robust shade of Eliza Carter…All women together ought to let
flowers fall upon the grave of Aphra Behn, for it was she who earned them the
right to speak their minds” (Woolf, 1929).

I couple nights ago I attended a
writer’s open mic at a local café. It was sponsored by the local university and
the venue is just a block off campus. Not a part of town I go to often and I
had never been to that café before, but I had some idea of what to expect:
college kids. And that’s who was there, a whole gaggle of them. I arrived early
and began scoping out the crowd, trying to decide if I was going to sign up to
read my work or not. I wasn’t sure how I, a forty-six year old butch lesbian,
or my work, autobiographical fiction, would play with the crowd. I was relieved
when a friend in my age range showed up and he confirmed that he was going to
read, also autobiographical prose. So, I said the hell with it and put my name
on the list.

As before any event wherein I speak
in front of people, I started to get a little nervous, but not nearly as
nervous as I used to. College helped cure the larger part of my jitters by constantly
having me give presentations of one type or another. I’ve done book reports,
persuasive speeches, research presentations, debates, two theses defenses (one
in front of a theater audience), and book readings of my own work. But, there were
still some nerves. It was a new crowd to me, plus I was literally twice their
age. I was worried that my work wouldn’t be relatable to them, and, to be fair,
they generally weren’t my target audience, though I’d be happy to count them as
such. So, I had some concerns.

I contemplated texting a writer
friend of mine to get her advice, sort of a WWAD (What Would April Do?) moment.
Then, I realized what she would do, and that is that she would tell me to go
for it. I’m sure she would have said something encouraging also, a textual pat
on the back. With that in mind, I stood up to read my piece, trying to keep my
voice from shaking. I found it difficult to make eye contact with the audience
until the very end, where the text was written in such a way that it was more
poignant to do so, because, though I had practiced, I didn’t have it memorized.
That being said, the audience reacted the way I had hoped they would by
laughing in the right places, knowing nods back and forth when I read something
that they related to, and the proverbial snaps of approval.

Granted, the applause and snaps are
expected out of politeness, as they are a supportive group, but for me it was
the laughs and knowing nods that did it. It wasn’t a polite reaction, it was a
connection with the work, even if it was for a moment, one line maybe.
Something I had written was relatable to them, and that was encouragement
enough for me.

I was inspired to write the following
poem, which I plan to read at the next open mic.

Open Letter to Gen. Z

Upon
our last meeting, I was ruminating on our age difference,

and
wondered if there was something, I could share with you,

pass
on, as it were, considering my advanced years.

After
thinking on it some time, I concluded

that
anything I would have to say would be outdated

at
best and condescending at worst. So, I almost chucked

it
all, but I’m not a quitter, so I figured I’d give it the ol’

college
try. College try, that’s just something we use to say.

As
I went through my vast rolodex of topics I could talk about—

rolodex,
that’s this thing that use to sit on desks and hold information—

like
a paper version of Google. Anyway, as I was going through my mental

notes,
I wondered what wisdom I could pass on to you—

I
figured the best course of action would be to go from my own experience

and
pass on some hard-learned truths.

Okay,
here goes:

don’t
fuck someone because they have a nice smile,

and
definitely don’t marry them and let them ruin your credit.

Don’t
go for style, go for substance, because pretty

doesn’t
last but substance will stand by you.

Don’t
apply for a job if you don’t understand what the qualifications mean,

and
don’t turn your nose up taking a job you didn’t go to school for

because
your landlord won’t give two shits that you aced all your English classes.

Remember
what it’s like to be poor so that you don’t become an asshole

in
your forties who thinks only slackers are on welfare and the homeless lack
motivation.

March,
and protest, and yell, and make your voices heard and do not go gentle into
that good night…rage against the dying of the planet and all the bullshit and
fuckery

that
the generations before you have left you with.

Someone
has to save this place.

Considering
your inheritance, it’s amazing that your generation is so peaceful. But I understand.

I
don’t know about you, but I’m tired. I’m tired of the dying, and I’m tired of
the hate.

I’m
tired of the lying and I’m tired of wondering how many people will die today.

So,
I leave you with this: good luck. We’re counting on you. No pressure.

In
my edition of Thoreau’s Walden (the Barnes and Noble Classics edition), Thoreau
takes up twenty pages just to describe Walden pond itself, as well as a few other
nearby ponds. At roughly four hundred words per page, that’s eight thousand
words just on a few bodies of water. It’s clear how much HDT loved Walden,
considering how many of those words were used just to describe what it looked
like.

“The scenery of Walden Pond is on a humble scale, and, though very beautiful, does not approach to grandeur, nor can it much concern one who has not long frequented it or lived by its shore; yet this pond is so remarkable for its depth and purity as to merit a particular description.”

And
he gave one, for two more pages, before moving on to talk about other ponds in
the area. But, he came back to give more description of his favorite pond, as
well as the conjectured history of its formation. No one has ever loved
anything like Thoreau loved Walden. As a fan of romcoms and, obviously, romance
novels (lesbian ones, of course), I have never watched, read, nor written about
a love like that. It made me ask myself, if I were to write something like Walden,
what would be my subject? Is there a place that I love as much as Thoreau loved
his pond?

The
obvious answer to that question is Chicago. Most who know me would probably say
that my love of the city started when I met my first love, who was from there.
She solidified it, but she didn’t start it. Andrew M. Greeley started it. I
first came upon Greeley at a sidewalk sale one summer of some year when I was
still an undergrad. I was home for the summer and was walking down Main St.,
when I came upon the sale, and my eye immediately fell on a table of books. I
started thumbing through them and came upon a novel whose glaring white cover
with blood red lettering immediately grabbed me. It was Happy are the
Merciful, by Andrew Greeley, a murder mystery, starring a character named
Father Blackie, set in modern day Chicago. I was intrigued, so I picked it up
and couldn’t put it down. After that, I made sure to read and collect every
Greeley novel I could get my hands on. His descriptions of Chicago and
environs, as well as his use of local history, made me fall in love with the
city, a place I’d never been to before.

I
suppose it was inevitable that I would fall in love with someone who lived
there. Even when that relationship ended, my love of the city held true, and is
still alive and well to this day. I visit often, and don’t mind playing the
tourist, as there is so much I haven’t seen. Of course, every time I visit, I
make sure to visit favorite haunts. There are a few used bookstores I always
make sure to stop into, a few restaurants I always eat at, though I also try
new ones every time, and I always walk the Mile. If you’re unfamiliar with the
city, the Mile, or One Mag Mile, or more formally, the Magnificent Mile, refers
to the downtown stretch of Michigan Avenue. A couple blocks off the Mile is
State Street, the one Sinatra called “that great street.” Go another four
blocks and you’ll be on Wells Street, under the el tracks (the west side of the
loop), the same el tracks Jake and Elwood drove under when they were evading
police. If you head back to Michigan and start walking North, in no time you’ll
see the Crain Communications Building, the same building one of Elizabeth Shue’s
young charges almost slid down the face of in Adventures in Babysitting.

If
movies aren’t your thing or you just want something more serious, let’s talk
about Grant Park. In the middle of Grant Park is arguably one of the most
famous water features in the country, the Buckingham Fountain. Immortalized in
the opening sequence of the sitcom, Married With Children, it is a stunning
sight to behold during the warmer months, when it’s going full blast. The fountain,
in all its magnificence, is not the only thing Grand Park is famous for. For
history buffs like myself, and/or for those who can remember, Grant Park was
the scene of a massive riot on August 28, 1968. Several anti-war groups converged
on the city to protest the war. Their activities coincided with the Democratic
National Convention. Over 10,000 protestors filled the park and

“[a]fter four days and nights of
violence, 668 people had been arrested, 425 demonstrators were treated at
temporary medical facilities, 200 were treated

on the spot, 400 given first aid for tear gas exposure and
110 went to hospital.

A total of 192 police officers were injured.” The
Guardian

The protestors burned the American flag, raised
the Viet Cong flag, and threw manure and urine at police. Police responded
with, what was described by witnesses, as “unrestrained violence”, resulting in
a police riot, where many of the injured were innocent bystanders who happened
to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The resulting trial, where a group
of organizers, who became known as The Chicago Seven, ended in short sentences,
which were later dropped.

Or, maybe you want to know something about the
gay history of Chicago. During my last foray into grad school I wrote a paper
on this topic. There is so much gay history in Chicago, St. Sukie de la Croix
wrote a fabulous book about it, called Chicago Whispers: A History of LGBT Chicago
Before Stonewall. In there and other sources you’ll read all about
Towertown (the section of the Loop where the men solicited each other), The
Dill Pickle Club, which was an entertainment venue that often held lively
discussions and debates on homosexual topics. You’ll also read about the Vice
Commission, whose job it was to clean up Chicago by arresting anyone suspected
of participating in immoral behavior, such as prostitution, gambling, and
homosexuality. Besides arresting people, the vice commission published a
report, The Social Evil of Chicago, in 1911, which, among other things,
noticed the correlation between women’s low wages and prostitution, mainly that
woman weren’t making enough at “legitimate” jobs, so therefore had to turn to
prostitution to make ends meet. Though nothing initially came of their report,
they helped pave the way for fair pay for women.

For a city named after the wild onions which
grew in the area, a city continuously plagued by problems of flooding and sewage
backup, fires, an infamous serial killer, a perpetually losing baseball team
with a goat curse, and windy politicians, it doesn’t sound like a place that
would have stolen my heart, but it did.
And once stolen, always stolen. I can sit here and list several more negative
things about the city, some of which you may have heard, some of which you
probably haven’t, but I’d rather tell you what I love. As Mark Twain so rightly
observed, it’s never the same city as it was when you last came through. I
always find something new or notice that something else has changed. I love the
age of the city and artistry of the architecture. The lake effect weather and
the over abundance of snow. The noisy, rattling el trains and Van Buren
station. The backwards flowing River and the basement garage feel of Lower
Wacker Drive. The giant, perpetually moving Ferris Wheel and the giant
Flamingo. The ghost of my first love.

Now this could only happen to a guy like me
And only happen in a town like this
So may I say to each of you most gratefully
As I throw each one of you a kiss

This is my kind of town, Chicago is
My kind of town, Chicago is
My kind of people too
People who smile at you

And each time I roam, Chicago is
Calling me home, Chicago is
Why I just grin like a clown
It’s my kind of town

My kind of town, Chicago is
My kind of town, Chicago is
My kind of razzmatazz
And it has, all that jazz

And each time I leave, Chicago is
Tuggin’ my sleeve, Chicago is
The Wrigley building, Chicago is
The union stockyard, Chicago is
One town that won’t let you down
It’s my kind of town

As I was trying to think about what
to write this week, I was scrolling Facebook trying to get inspired and to wake
up enough to write a coherent sentence. Well, I know what I’m writing about,
but it didn’t come from my newsfeed, and I just poured my first cup of coffee
and my eyes aren’t completely open yet, so let’s see what happens.

What had come to mind to write about
was weight loss, in particular my weight loss journey, as the common
phraseology would have it. I had glanced over to the books on the corner of my
desk and saw the notebook where I record my daily calories, the amount of
exercise I do each day and how many calories I burn while doing it, as well as
my blood pressure, which is something else I have to deal with. It got me
thinking about what I’ve been through, what my mother’s been through, and what
some of my friends are going through.

For me, the journey goes all the way
back to when I was about seven. I remember there was a particular pair of jeans
I really liked to wear, though I was only allowed to wear them to school, that
had a light blue shiny stripe that ran down the outer seams of each leg. I just
thought they were cool. One day when I went to put them on, I exhaled, and the
snap fastener popped open. I had developed a small belly and could no longer
fit into my pants. I remember finding this funny and I resnapped my pants and
repeated the process several more times and giggled each time. That was the
last time in my recollection that my weight was a laughing matter to me.

I tried not to pay attention to it,
just went on about my life, playing outside, reading my books, sitting in trees
and thinking (a favorite activity when I was nine). I had always been a loner
since I started going to school, as most of my fellow classmates seemed mean
and would often giggle unkindly about me behind their hands. I knew they were
giggling about me, though I didn’t know why, because their eyes were looking at
me while their hands covered their whispered insults. So, I kept to myself and
learned not to trust. I didn’t miss having friends my own age, as I made
friends with older kids in the neighborhood, friends of my brother’s who didn’t
seem to always mind me hanging around. Sometimes they did, then I would either
leave or start teasing them in a joking way, making some of them laugh, and
would often be allowed to stay. It helped develop my sense of humor being able
to keep up with the older boys.

My weight continued to climb and the
older I got the bolder my classmates got in approaching me about my weight and
saying things outright. Nicknames were given to me, the most enduring one I can’t
remember if my brother or my father started it, but they both used it. That one
hurt the most. I couldn’t escape it, not even at home.

As a result of all this, I never had
friends my own age until college, as I never did learn to trust that they weren’t
really just making fun of me. I tried friendship with a few and exchanged phone
calls with a couple of girls in high school, trying to build friendships, but
we never hung out at school or elsewhere. It was a mutual thing. I never
approached them to do so, like all the unpopular kids in teen movies do, who
are so desperate to be part of the group. So, in high school I ate lunch alone
and stayed home on the weekends.

In college I met people who didn’t care
what I looked like, as long as I had something fun and or interesting to say. I
finally had friends I could trust weren’t talking about me behind their hands.
A few years later, I met my first girlfriend through one of those friends. She
was tall and butch and hot, and she wanted me. She was even turned on by me. That
took a while to sink in, but it finally did. After her there were a few other
women who also wanted me, who also looked better than I thought I deserved.

Fast forward to March 2014. My
mother had just died and my then spouse and I were tasked with packing up her
apartment while my brother dealt with the funeral arrangements and other
business matters. I opened her top dresser drawer and discovered a treasure
trove of OTC dietary supplements, of the type packaged to look like and sold
near the vitamins. At least half a dozen bottles of them. It made me angry.
Later, going through her papers I found some poems she had written years ago,
about the time I was giggling about popping the snaps on my jeans, she was
writing about how much she hated being fat. When my mother was a teenager, she
had been skinny. Beautiful face and nice figure. Then, she got married at the
age of nineteen and was pregnant within days. She continued to get pregnant
every two years for the first six years of her marriage, though only two of us
lived, losses my mother felt throughout her life. Somewhere along the way she
developed a thyroid condition and hypertension. These things are just as much
genetic as they are weight related.

I was angry when I saw my mother’s
drawer full of dietary supplements because it meant that she struggled way more
than I ever thought she did. She never once mentioned it out loud, but it was
there if I looked. I started to remember when I was a kid her always drinking
diet soda and eating diet chocolate bars, hardly eating anything at dinner. She
would make sure my brother and father and I each had meat on our plates, for
instance, then only eat the canned vegetable and maybe some potatoes, which
usually meant my father would have two servings on his plate instead of the one
that my brother and I received. I used to resent my father for this, thinking
he was selfish and that he made her do this. Now, I just don’t know. Maybe it
was her choice all along. Maybe she thought that cutting back on meat would be
good for her weight loss.

A few years ago, after I was finally
able to secure health insurance for myself after not having it for several
years, when I went to the doctor, the first thing I said was that I wanted to
be checked for diabetes, something else that runs in my family. My numbers were
off the charts…in the good way. I was not at risk of diabetes. What I did have,
however, was high blood pressure. It was dangerously high, with the top number
being over two hundred. I was immediately prescribed pills and my doctor began
to monitor me every couple months, with me keeping track at home. After several
months of pills and changing and monitoring my diet, it finally regulated. I
still have to take medication for it, and I might always have to, though that’s
a small price to pay.

As for losing weight, I started seriously
on that journey once several years ago, before my marriage ended. I was
exercising, watching my calorie intake, drinking more water, doing all the
things. Then, my ex had surgery and my life changed and became more about him
and his daily needs. I got out of my routine and couldn’t get back on it when
he recovered, and my days were my own again. After our divorce and I moved back
to Illinois and my doctor and I started to take care of me, I started back in
earnest doing all the things. It was working. My weight was dropping, my bp was
dropping, my spirits were soaring, and I was looking towards the future. Then,
I decided I wanted to come back to Oklahoma, the place I had moved away from
when my marriage ended, because I missed all the friends I had left behind.
When finances forced those plans to fall through and I had to stay where I was,
I sank into a mild depression and stopped doing all the things and didn’t care
what I ate anymore. The weight came back like nobody’s business.

Realizing I needed to make changes,
I sought therapy for a little while, but it wasn’t a good fit and it became
cost prohibitive. Instead, I leaned on my friends for support, and they didn’t
fail me. I soon realized that if I wanted to make the move it was up to me to
make it happen. I knew I didn’t want to sink into depression again. So, I
started saving money and doing research on apartments. It took several months
of planning and saving, but I was finally able to make it happen. Now that I’ve
made the move, I am focusing on my weight loss again. I’m monitoring my
calories and exercising every day. One of the things I looked for when I was
apartment hunting was a complex with an onsite gym. As luck would have it, the
gym at my apartment is no more than fifty feet from my front door.

Some days are better than others and
every day I have to check myself. Just yesterday I had lunch with a friend and
didn’t make the best choices I could have. It wasn’t that bad; I just know it
could have been better. That being said, I’m not the type to get angry at
myself for things like that. I was having a good time with a lovely friend,
whose company I greatly enjoy. We had a great day, and the food wasn’t even the
best part.

I know I have friends who are on
their own weight loss journeys, and I’m sure they are all at different places
and feel different ways about it. I’m sure some of them take the comments from
family and friends and strangers and internalize them. To them, and anyone else
in that situation, I just want to say this: tell those people to fuck off! You’re
doing the best you can. Even on days when you think/know you could do better,
you could have made better choices, so what? They’re not walking your journey,
only you are doing that. And you’re not perfect, but you’re trying. and that’s
all you can do. Just keep trying. And if they still want to whisper behind
their hands about you or say it out loud, just exhale and pop open the snap of
your pants and start giggling. At the very least, it will give them something
else to focus on.

I’ve spent the past week making my
new place more like a home. I now have a mattress to sleep on and am no long on
the floor. Half of my books are unpacked, the other half still in boxes or
stacked up by author awaiting more shelves. There are paintings and degrees on
my walls, and I now have a vacuum to clean up after my two cats, who, though
cute, are not the best housekeepers. I’ve also been working and working out,
had some down time and went to see a movie, and been binge watching a lot of
CSI. I had forgotten just how much Grissom ended the first scenes of every episode
right before the theme song kicked in with a bad pun or dad joke. All he lacked
was a pair of mirrored sunglasses and he could have been David Caruso. All of
this is leading up to the fact that I haven’t had any inspiration for the blog
this week. I was hoping my reading for the week could have done it (Astrophysics
for People in a Hurry), but not even NDT could inspire me. So, instead, I’m
giving you the first chapter of one of the many projects I’m currently working
on. This project currently lacks a title. As with all my books before they have
a title, I refer to this one by the name of the main character. Hence, this is
Chapter One of Sir Les. Enjoy.

Chapter One

In a kingdom and country no one of
current memory remembers, lived a brave and loyal knight errant whom even fewer
remember the name of. But, for the sake of telling you her story, I shall tell
you her name, as one of the few people who do, in fact, know it. Her peasant
mother named her Leslie, but through happenstance, bravery, and a right bit of
lying, she became known as Les, loyal knight to her king, the renowned King
Stephen. King Stephen was well known for his kind heart, fairness to all, and
for being a bit mushy in the head. Even though everyone else in the kingdom
knew the loyal Knight Les was, in fact, a woman, King Stephen never seemed to
catch on. Neither her long, golden curls, nor her burgeoning breasts would
dissuade him from his belief in her manliness. He was often heard to say that
Sir Les was the best man he had. No one wanted to tell him the truth, least of
all Les. He was a kind man, after all, a man she had often wished had been her
father. His willful ignorance made it possible for her to woo many ladies of
the court, at least, according to legend, who seemed more than willing to be
wooed by her, and they all kept her secrets, as she kept theirs. Heard tell, anyway.

All of that changed in the summer of
her nineteenth year. The good King Stephen had suddenly taken ill and died just
three days later. His son Reginald assumed the throne immediately, and the good
cheer that had been a staple of the kingdom up until then became a thing of the
past. King Reginald was nothing like his father. He was, for all intents and
purposes, a self-entitled party boy who didn’t take life too seriously and
spent most of his time in the grape with his mates. Though he was not much to
look at, he was a trifle vain, as no one dared to dissuade the young prince
otherwise. His features were striking in the sense that he looked as if he’d
been struck with something heavy and the features of his face had remained out
of alignment ever since. No one was really sure if he actually lacked
intelligence, or just refused to grow up, but either way, not being much in the
know seemed to suit him just fine. He knew nothing of literature or history or
music and refused to correct these lapses in his knowledge. He would often joke
to his fellows that all one needed to know to run a kingdom was how to win a
war and all one needed to win a war was to kill as many of the other army as
possible. He wasn’t much wrong on this, but the degree to which he was wrong didn’t bother him in the
slightest. In his heart of hearts, he knew his father didn’t want him to have
the kingdom and had long suspected that his father would give it to his sister
over him, should he ever need to give it to anyone. And Reginald was fine with
that possibility. He planned to live out the rest of his days inebriated and occasionally being shot at by
the husband of one or other of the many women in the village as he crawled out
a back window. His bum bore many a scrape from a stray nail, and once, the tip
of a dagger. But, when his father died suddenly not long after his step mother,
who would have been a good queen, Reginald felt, his sister was too young to
assume the thrown that should have been rightfully hers.

Alas, this is not a story about King
Reginald, though he has a part in it. This is a story about Les, and we’d best
get back to it. Before Sir Les became Sir Les, she was a young peasant girl by
the name of Leslie, who lived alone with her mother in a little shack on the
edge of the kingdom. She didn’t remember her father, but her mother spoke of
him often and he sounded as if he had been a nice man. His death had left them
even worse off than they had been, if that were possible, and her mother could
barely work hard enough to pay their rent, let alone have any left over for
themselves. As soon as she could walk, Leslie joined her mother in the fields
doing whatever she could, which amounted to little more than moving stones out
of the field. When she was old enough to pay attention to such things, she saw
that the men made twice as much money as the women did, and she knew what she
had to do.

Her mother came in from working in
the fields one evening, dirt and sweat upon her brow, and saw her teenage
daughter pulling on the britches of her late husband. She stood there, amused
for a moment, watching from the doorway, as her daughter pulled them on, then
the tunic. Amused, Amelia crossed her arms over her chest and asked her
startled daughter, “Pants is one thing, but what about your curls?”

Leslie turned at the sound of her
mother’s voice, startled, and almost dropped the bit of rope she was going to
use as a belt. Her cheeks turned scarlet as she countered with, “I don’t know
what you mean, mother.” She turned her back once more, hoping foolishly that if
she couldn’t see her that meant her mother really wasn’t there and hadn’t
really caught her.

“Child, I don’t know what you’re up
to but it looks to me like youse a bit of adventurin’ in mind.” She moved into
the little shack, trying not to stumble over the chicken that had wandered in,
as they were wont to do. She came to stand next to her daughter and shook her
head, lost in the memory of the man who used to wear the clothes that her
daughter now donned. Sometimes she saw her late husband in her daughter’s eyes,
or when she saw her in profile and noticed her chin or high forehead, all
features of the man she once knew. It pained her sometimes to look at her
daughter’s countenance, but there was nothing to be done about it. There was no
denying her daughter was just as handsome as her husband had once been. Maybe
moreso. As her face, though strong and determined, was also softened where her
husband’s had been hard, and her daughter’s eyes often shone with a dancing
merriment that was truly her own.

Leslie looked back at her mother now
once she had the rope secured. “You know just as I do that the men make twice
as much as we do and it ain’t right! We work just as hard and deserve the
same!” Her cheeks were coloring and her blue eyes were hard as crystal.

Amelia chuckled again. “Yes, well,
what you plan to do about it? You think a young girl in britches is going to
change the way of things?” She scoffed and shook her head at the folly of
youth.

“Well, someone has to! Anyway, I’m
not looking to change anything other than our household. Let someone else
change the world, I just want a decent meal every now and then. And this is the
only way I know to get one. How do I look?” Leslie put her arms up as if
presenting herself for her mother’s inspection.

Her mother took another look at her
daughter, at how her husband’s clothes seemed to fall right off her frame and
it made something click for her that she couldn’t name, other than to say that
it looked right somehow for her daughter to dress this way. It suited her. But
the hair was a problem. It was long, to the middle of her back, with loose
curls the color of cornsilk and, if washed, would probably shine in the sun,
though it hadn’t seen soap for a good long while. She tsked as she approached
her daughter, then reached up with both hands to gather the hair behind
Leslie’s head, then smiled. “You’re going to have to use some of that rope to
cinch this.” Then, she tapped her daughter’s chest with a knowing finger and
replied, “You should be glad you haven’t fully come into flower yet, or else
they would never believe you.”

“Mother!”

“What? It’s the truth. At least this
way, if you want to be taken for a boy you should have no trouble. What shall
you say your name is?”

Now Leslie hesitated, almost as if
answering her mother’s question might shame her. “I was thinking Les.”

Her mother smiled. “Like your
father. I think that would be fine.”

Les, as she now was, smiled at her
mother, then allowed her mother to help her cut off a piece of the rope to
secure her long curls. She had considered cutting it to hasten the male
appearance she sought, but decided against it, as she didn’t expect to be
playing this role forever. Someday she hoped to secure a position, somewhere,
some way, that would make it possible to live better, and she would do it as
herself, without pretense.

Les set out the next day in search
of work. She tried the farms nearest where she and her mother lived, but they
all laughed at her.

“Who do you think you’re foolin’
missy? Britches don’t make you a boy, or able to do a boy’s labor. Go back home
to your mama and do as you’re told. And take off the pants, you ain’t foolin’
anyone.” The foreman of the farm down the way continued to laugh.

Les looked at him defiantly. “I
ain’t tryin’ to fool no one! I just want to eat proper! Nothing wrong with
that!”

The foreman laughed again. “Then go
on and pick a husband, and let him do a man’s labor, while you go home and make
the babies. Go on.” He waved at her with false cheer and all the nearby men joined
him in laughter.

Les kicked the dirt. “You’ll see! I
can too do a man’s labor, I’ll prove it to you!” She started to walk away.

To her retreating form, the foreman
said, “Hard to do that when everyone knows youse a girl.”

Les continued walking, her cheeks
flushed and her jaw set, fists balling at her sides. She walked on, and finally
on the other side of the kingdom, where no one recognized her, she finally
found a foreman who took her at her word that she was a boy, and hired her,
though not without looking her up and down first and finally settling on a grin
that made her uncomfortable. When she went home that night she was able to tell
her mother the good news, then she searched the cabin for an old tunic, and
after working with it for a few minutes, she had fashioned something that she
could wrap around her chest, then was able to secure it with some of her
mother’s pins. Then, she put her father’s clothes back on and felt her new flat
chest and smiled.

Her mother saw her daughter’s new chest,
or lack thereof, and the happiness on her face and just shook her head. A tear
escaped her. “Where has my daughter gone?”

Les turned to her mother. “I’m right
here, mama. I’ll always be your daughter. I’m just going to work and make
things better for us.” Les took her mother’s hands in her own. “I’m going to
make things better for you, mama. You deserve to live in a house with doors and
windows. A house with a real floor. One where the chickens don’t come in and do
as they please.” So saying, she pushed a chicken off the table onto the floor.
It screeched in protest.

Her mother took her other hand back
from her daughter and wiped her eyes again and gave her child a small chuckle.
“What would I do with a real floor? It would just be something to keep clean.
And doors and windows? What about the summer breeze? How would that get in?”

“We can open them for the breeze.
But, wouldn’t it be nice to close them in the winter?”

Her mother considered. “I suppose it
would.”

“Then, I have to try. For both of us.
You deserve those things, mama.”

Amelia touched her daughter’s face
and looked into the eyes that so reminded her of her long lost husband, then
leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. “The Lord gave me everything I
needed when you were born.” Mother and daughter exchanged a smile.

Well, I’m here, I finally made it…I’m
back in Oklahoma, a place I left nearly three years ago, after having lived
here for nearly fifteen. I haven’t been gone long enough for the place to have
changed much, other than a few businesses have come and gone, and one
republican governor was replaced by another. There’s still road construction on
I35, and OU football is kicking into gear and will soon replace everything else
to become the dominant Saturday thing in the town I live in. There are some
things I’m glad to see haven’t changed, such as the bus system, my favorite
coffee shop, my favorite thrift store, and most importantly, the people I left
behind here.

Last night, I had dinner with a
small group of close friends to celebrate my return, as well as my upcoming
birthday. I timed my move specifically because I wanted to be here to celebrate
with them. At the end of the evening my best friend told me she was glad I was
back because, “you belong with us.” That sense of love and belonging was
probably the best gift she could have given me.

The last time I moved away from
Oklahoma I took only what could fit in my friend’s compact car, which mainly
consisted of books, clothes, and my cat. I’ve always been one to travel light,
never having much attachment to things so much that I horded them (except
books), so getting rid of things was not an issue for me. After my ex took what
he wanted from our shared property (much of which he had brought into the
marriage to begin with) I set about selling, giving away, or throwing away the
rest. Going through the house and making multiple trips to the dumpster became,
though tiring, also cathartic. It was visual and solid proof that I was starting
over. Out with the old.

Moving back, I left Illinois with a
few more things than I had arrived with, but not much more. Now I also had a
desk, a side table, wall art, and a second cat. I am currently sitting in my one-bedroom
apartment awaiting furniture to come from multiple sources, friends who have
items they don’t need and are willing to give them to me so that I can finally
put together a place that is mine. Multiple times, I’ve heard them say, “It’s
not the best or the prettiest, but it’ll still work.” None of that bothers me.
My only concern is if it fulfills the need. Does it light up? Can I sit on it?
Can I stretch out and sleep on it? My friends have been generous beyond
measure, and I couldn’t ask for better.

Speaking upon the items contained in
his cabin near the pond and his lack of need for finer things, Thoreau said, “Indeed,
the more you have of such things, the poorer you are…Pray, for what do we move
ever but to get rid of our furniture, our exuviae; at last to go from
this world to another newly furnished, and leave this to be burned.” Henry
David Thoreau, Walden. (1854). Nearly one hundred and fifty years before
Robert Lilienfeld was urging us all to Use Less Stuff, Thoreau literally
wrote a first-person account of how to do just that. Though I’ve never read
Lilienfeld’s book and I’ve just recently picked up Thoreau for the first time,
despite having multiple degrees in English, I’ve always lived this way. I’m
sure part of it harkens back to childhood and the excessive amount of moving around
we did. When you move a lot you realize you don’t want to carry a lot. Also, I
grew up in a family who was always below the poverty line, so I just never had
a lot to begin with. I adapted. The thing that really changed as I grew up was
that I could finally buy books, as books were a luxury my family couldn’t
afford. But, for material things I’ve had little need of. Especially unnecessary
things. I won’t spend money on something that doesn’t serve a purpose in my
house. Other than a very few art pieces from local artists, I have no other
decorations. I have several pictures of friends on display, as well as my
parents. You will not find even one thing which could be considered a knick-knack
in my home. I have a long-standing fatwa against them. Anyone who wishes to get
me a gift and sees a knick-knack which makes them think of me is clearly no
friend of mine.

So, I am starting yet another new journey, and I’m looking forward to wherever this road may lead. This time around, I won’t be alone on the road.

“I seem to have run in a great circle and met myself again on the starting line.” Jeanette Winterson, Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit.

“Joyce is right about history being a nightmare—but it might be the nightmare from which no one can awake. People are trapped in history and history is trapped in them.” James Baldwin, Stranger in the Village

In less than a week, I’ll be moving
back to Oklahoma for the third time, a place where I once said I wanted to
leave before I died there. No, I’m not near death nor am I going there to die.
However, if I stay there for the next fifty or more years, whatever my maker
has sketched out for me in They’re Book, that’ll be alright with me. I have now
lived there long enough to have history there. I have now lived there long
enough to have friends I consider my logical family. I have lived there so
long, that my own hometown and the people I left behind there, are foreign to
me.

Last week, I spent the weekend with
family in my hometown as a way to say goodbye to them one more time. While
there, I heard news about people I once knew, former teachers and neighbors,
estranged family members. Most of which I hadn’t thought of in years, some I couldn’t
remember. I learned that a former teacher from the high school, a man I’d heard
of but never had a class with, was now ensconced at the old folks home next
door to my niece’s house, where she worked. She said he writes a poem in his
journal almost every day. On days when nothing special happens or he’s not
feeling well, his entry for that day simply reads, “Nothing.”

I don’t keep a journal or a diary. I
never have. I tried once but found myself boring and figured other people would
too, so I stopped trying to record my thoughts that way and stuck to writing poems.
I still find myself boring most of the time, and I doubt very strongly I will
ever do something so egotistical and narcissistic as to write my memoirs. Part
of the reason is that for any and all moments in my life I could choose to write
about, I already know how the story ends, so I have no motivation to start
writing it. Sure, I could lie like some do and change the facts, but what good
would that do? I’ll still know.

Every time I go home, I also look at
the things in town which have changed in my absence. This time, I was
lamenting, yet again, the loss of the A & W drive-up restaurant that used
to be on the northern edge of town. The restaurant left during my childhood and
another business took over the building, until, eventually, the building itself
was gone and now a gas station and convenience store set on that spot. On the
other end of town, across from the Catholic school, is a CVS, which I
supposedly saw last Christmas because we drove right passed it, but I have no
recollection of it and don’t remember seeing it at all. When CVS came in, they
drove out the last remaining family-owned drugstore, and now my niece has to go
to the next town over, more than sixteen miles away, to get her insulin because
CVS won’t take her insurance.

I didn’t get a chance to see much of
the town while I was there, as my niece lives on the north side, near the route
we would take out the next day. I had been hoping for one final glimpse of the
Main Street. Growing up, I had always loved the architecture of the buildings on
that street, and often found myself looking up at them, wondering what they had
once been, who had owned them, and what was sold within. Many of the buildings
which are there now have been there since the early 1900s, and they still bare
the marks of that time when there was more attention put to detail, and things
were built to last. When I was growing up there, the local paper, which came
out once a week, on Thursdays, always printed a picture from the early days of
the town. More than anything else, I would poor over these pictures. I would
try to discern the outlines of the modern town as I superimposed it in my mind’s
eye over the printed photo. One of my favorite photos, however, wasn’t of the
buildings at all, but of the old town square. The square is no longer there.
Instead, the library and municipal buildings sit on that space now. But, once upon
a time it was a park, with benches and trees and lighted paths to walk. The
ladies would walk through on Sundays in their best dresses, carrying umbrellas,
usually in groups of three of four, their gentlemen following close behind.
This is what the picture showed. Years later, when I knew of such things, it
would remind me of a Seurat painting, albeit, a small town midwestern version.

I’ve never been one to care much for
world history. This was something I never questioned, thinking history, in
general, was just never going to be an interest of mine. Then, some time ago, I
realized that I’m always fascinated by local history of wherever I’m living.
Once I’m connected to a place, I want to know how that place came to be. Who
gave the town its name? Who were the families behind the names of the streets?
And what was so special about this spot that someone had to stop and say, “Here
I will make a town?” In grade school I was told the story of how the name came
to be and I think that was the beginning of my fascination with local history.
As the story goes, in the 1800s, when the town felt they were ready to make it
official, they filled out the paperwork to become incorporated and sent them
off to D.C., naming themselves after a man who had bought land in the area with
the sole purpose of making a town square. When the paperwork arrived in
Washington, bearing the same name as the name of a town in Virginia but spelled
differently (but correctly as far as its namesake was concerned), the postal
worker who received the paperwork thought that those Midwesterners couldn’t spell,
and changed the name on the paperwork before he approved it. Meanwhile, back in
Illinois, the locals of the new town decided it was too much bother to try to change
it, so they kept the spelling, but pronouncing it the way it should be for many
years to come, until over time, the stress on the vowel hardened to the way we
pronounce it now. The myth around this change claims that it changed from a
soft “a” to a hard “a” due to the accumulation of coal dust in the throats of
the locals.

This was not the only town I lived
in growing up. In my memory, we lived in seven different towns, sometimes
making moves within the town during our time there, or moving away for a year
or so, then moving back. We moved so much, that I called my father the “Master
Mover.” No one could play moving box Jenga like my father. The reason for the
moves was either to find more work, to find cheaper housing, or to move closer
to work. The moves occurred so frequently throughout my childhood that I rarely
spent more than one year at a school at a time. Making friends was next to
impossible and getting attached to a particular place was just not thought of. From
the fifth grade through high school graduation, my family moved between two
neighboring towns four times, until finally settling in the town where my niece
now lives when I was a sophomore in high school. After I went to college my
parents moved several more times, but that’s a story for another day. Finally,
after all that moving around, I was able to attach the moniker “hometown” to a
specific place. Now, when asked where I grew up, that’s the town I will name.
Of all the places I lived growing up, it is the one I know the most about. I
would never claim that I love it or that I long to see it. However, the history
of the place is trapped within me, just as a portion of mine is now trapped
within its city limits.

I just spent most of this weekend
with part of my family in one of the towns I grew up in. As mentioned in
previous blogs, my family moved around a lot, which resulted in me attending
several schools. I spent the weekend in the place where my family lived the
longest and where I graduated high school. It’s a small town of no more than
five thousand souls, several of whom are related to me and several more are
people I went to high school with who never left. All my remaining immediate
family lives there, which isn’t much. There’s my brother and his wife, three of
their four kids, and four of their six grandkids. I might also have some
cousins still floating about there.

This weekend I was only able to see
my oldest niece and her family, as the rest of the family was out of town or
working. My oldest niece is the one in the family the most like me. Not to say
we have a lot of interests in common, but we both approach the world in a calm way,
not letting drama overtake us and content to just sit and be.

I was at the hospital when both of my nieces were born. Brandi, the oldest, was born three days before my fifteenth birthday. From the start, she was my little buddy. When her mother and I would go places together, people often assumed I was her mother, though I never understood that. The family resemblance between us isn’t that strong, for one. I also felt I was too young to be considered her mother, even though that technically wasn’t true. As soon as she could read, I was taking her to the library and introducing her to books. She read so many one summer that she was allowed to go on the library field trip for summer readers. I was her chaperone on this trip. The destination was Cahokia Mounds, a Native American burial mound that had been a tourist site since I was a child. We toured the museum, watched the video, and climbed the mound. Well, she climbed it, it was too much for me.

As soon as she could count, we would
watch Jeopardy together and she would keep score for me. She cheated for me,
however, as she never took off for the ones I missed. That kid could get me to
do things I wasn’t normally inclined to do. Such as play games in the yard,
play on the swings in the park, or just enjoy a kid’s company for more than an
hour.

Then, in 1993, when I was twenty and she was five, I went away to college, only coming home for holidays and some of the summer breaks. Before I left, Brandi gave me a small Pound Puppy to take with me. I named him Rufus and he sat on my bookshelf looking down at me while I sat at my desk doing my homework. By the time I graduated, in 1998, I had missed five years of her life. I spent that summer with my brother’s family, then I went to grad school for two years. Nearly a year after I graduated, I left Illinois for Oklahoma, where I lived for five years. When I came back in 2007, it was to hear my nineteen-year-old niece tell me that she was pregnant and was getting married to someone I didn’t know. I was only back home for a few months before I went back to Oklahoma and this time stayed for nine years. This time when I came back my niece had two children, a boy and a girl, and was still married to the same man that I had only met a few times.

This weekend I informed my niece that when I’m old and infirm, if I don’t have a partner, I want her to be the one who takes care of me. She asked me why. I simply said, “Because I like you.” And I do. But it’s more than that. There is a kinship there that goes beyond blood and I feel comfortable with her. She told me about one of the residents at the home she works at as a CNA. A woman who needs a little extra care sometimes once asked my niece to lay beside her in her bed as she was going to sleep. My niece did so. It reminded me of when I used to put her down for naps as a child. I would put my arm out and she would lay down next to me in my bed. There wasn’t much talking, and she would settle down quickly. It wasn’t long before I could remove myself from the bed and she was sleep for the next two or three hours.

In less than two weeks I am leaving Illinois again, back to Oklahoma. As has been the case with us, I am leaving her yet again. I have always felt some guilt over this, but I know I needn’t worry. She’s happy, she has a good family, a job she likes, a new house they’re working on, and a good husband who is better than my mother ever hoped he’d be. I hope to see them again at Christmas, but we’ll have to see if the budget works out.

I also have another niece,
Brittany. I didn’t get a chance to see her this weekend due to scheduling, but
maybe next time. Brittany and I had a good relationship when she was growing
up, but she was closest to my mother and we just didn’t gel as much. That said,
I’ll have to write about her another day.

In
the Fall of 2001, just weeks after the attack on the World Trade Center, I
befriended a young woman, ten years my junior, in a lesbian chat room. She
informed me that she came from a strict Mormon upbringing, was currently
enrolled at BYU, and wasn’t out to anyone. We quickly became friends and I took
on the role of lesbian mentor, albeit from afar. The whole experience inspired
me to write poetry about that time, and I’ve recently rediscovered it while
packing to move. I believe there were more, but I was only able to find three.
Upon rereading them, I believe them to be some of my best work. I do think
there is more to tell within the story I created within these poems, and maybe
someday I will. The three poems are below.

The Newcomer

A
newcomer has come to our little Isle

she
seems unsure at times

as
if she took a wrong turn somewhere

or
meant to stay on dry land—see Athens, perhaps

I
make it a point to welcome her

tell
her she needn’t write poetry in order to stay

she
needn’t do anything, but the longer she stays

she
will likely become someone’s inspiration

I
think she will be well received here

the
ladies will like her and Sapph will

look
on her with pleasure

I
have prepared a room for her—it is my old room

it
is full of books and paintings and paper on which to write

she
will find her voice here

as
so many of us have

and
will learn to cultivate it

and
bring out her best

I
am to be her servant

she
needs anything she need only to ask

tired
from her journey, I have drawn her a bath

and
will soothe her weary travelers’ muscles

and
hope she will look upon me with favor

Sapph
gently scolds me for trying to corrupt the young

I
remind her that it is a practice

I
learned at her side—she laughs at me

and
tells me I have learned too much

“Yes,
but what I learn has become art”

She
smiles gently at me, I am once again her pupil

“To
experience is to live and to live is to love…

and
to love is to create art”

then
she gives me a gentle push

in
the newcomer’s direction

and
once face to face with her—I falter

Shy,
herself, she smiles at me

I
remember my voice and offer a welcome

she
lowers her eyes and accepts,

not
yet knowing the proper response—

which
is to merely say thank you

she
follows me as I lead her to her room

hanging
back, I think she’s afraid of me

I
assure her I mean her no harm

and
only have her pleasure in mind

and
will take my leave if it be that which pleases her

understanding
the rules at last, she says, “Please stay.”

The Newcomer’s Servant

I
have been the newcomer’s servant

for
many months now

she
is an undemanding mistress

and
still shy about asking me for things

though
time and again I have told her

that
her simplest wish is my pleasure to fulfill

Sapph
says to give her time

that
she will become accustomed to me soon

and
not still blush and downcast her eyes

when
I bow before her and kiss her hand

“She
will recognize love soon enough

and
lift her eyes to gaze upon it

and
the rouge on her cheeks will soften

into
a hue of complacency.”

I
want to question her on how she can be so sure

but
one does not question Sapph

oh,
it is not that she doesn’t care for it—

quite
the contrary, to enter into a battle of wits

with
the tenth muse is to enter into

an
argument that can go on for days

she
doesn’t need to be proven right

but
she will debate and discuss

until
you are proven wrong

Then,
our Sapph will laugh, though not unkindly

and
proceed to write a poem

about
you in which she refers to you as her lover

because
we all are, after a fashion

and
she does love us all

only
now and then, she loves one of us a little more

I
am selfishly glad that everyone else

is
preoccupied with their own inspiration

and
have left the newcomer and I in peace

to
my knowledge she hasn’t written any poetry

nor
has she requested an easel

but
I have noticed her watching me

Whether
it’s to see how to act here

or
with a lover’s eye, I can only guess

she
rarely makes a request of me

but
when I feel her eyes upon me

I
can’t help but wonder what she wants of me

but
I can only hope she soon finds her voice

The Newcomer’s Voice

Things
have settled into a routine

Fall
is upon us and the wind has begun

to
rustle the hems of our gowns

and
to cover many a brow with strands

of
a stray curl here and there

I
have seen this happen many a time

to
my mistress—I have seen her

blowing
the curl away with

a
distracted breath—not knowing

that
now I am watching her

Sapph
has seen my frustration

and
each time she walks past

with
her hands clasped behind her

she
always gives a knowing smile and

a
nod of encouragement or puts a hand

on
my arm and whispers in my ear

“Faint
heart, fair lady—fair chance”

But
Sapph doesn’t realize

that
all of my bravado

upon the newcomer’s arrival wasn’t real

Sapph
doesn’t realize that despite my years here

I
still tremble at a lady’s presence,

and
that the young newcomer,

who
has, on occasion, touched my hand

makes
me tremble most of all

The
newcomer has seemed to grow comfortable here

she
no longer looks down when she addresses me

and
has been known to ask my opinion

about
which books she should read

and
then discusses them with me after

“Why
aren’t any of your books here?

I
know you’ve written many—where are they?”

I
tell her that I gave them all to Sapph

that
when I wrote them she was the only

one
who understood them—because they were written for her

“So
Sapph is your lover?”

This
thought makes me smile

the
newcomer misunderstands

“Sapph
is your lover too—she is lover to us all

as
she is sister and mother and teacher”

“And
what are you?”

“For,
I am your servant.”

“Will
you always be?”

“Unless
you dismiss me.”

“And
if I don’t?”

“Then
I will remain as I am.”

“And
if I wish to change your duties?”

“I
will do as you wish.”

“And
if I wish you to come to me?”

“It
has already been spoken and I am already there.”

I
did get the chance to meet the newcomer a few years later. By then, she had
been out for a while and was looking forward to graduating so that she could
live more openly. During those early days, I only saw her twice, and no, there
is no love story there to tell. As life often does, it went on for both of us,
in different directions. It would be nearly fifteen years before I caught up
with her again through the power of Facebook. She’s currently living her best
life, with Dr. in front of her name, a woman on her arm, with a house and a
dog. I am grateful for whatever time and whatever role I was able to play for
her. And, if nothing else, knowing her helped me produce some of my best
writing and I have a few good stories to tell, none of which I’ll put here.

T.L. Hayes was born in Alton, Illinois, but has never lived there. At the time she was born, her family lived in a much smaller town nearby, which didn’t have a hospital. Her father, Richard, though functionally illiterate, was a hard working man who never let his family go hungry. Her mother, Judy, was a stay at home mom, mother of two children. Due to her father’s inability to read, he lost several jobs during her childhood, forcing the family to move frequently from one small town to the next. This vagabond lifestyle resulted in her attending seven grade schools and two high schools. Later, she attended Blackburn College, a work college twenty minutes from her parents’ home, earning her Bachelors there, before moving on to Western Illinois University, and after a long hiatus, The University of Oklahoma, earning a masters degree at each. In the interim, a lot of life happened. Three relationships, one marriage, one divorce, and several jobs which had nothing to do with writing. But, she has met some interesting people along the way. She published her first novel in August, 2016, A Class Act, with Bold Strokes Books, and went on to publish two more with them, as well as various short stories which appear in anthologies from Bold Strokes Books and Sapphire Books, respectively. She also dabbles in poetry, and has had a few appear on Cajun Mutt Press, but the majority of her writing time is spent on trying to complete three different projects at once. She briefly left Oklahoma after living there for fourteen years, and went back to her home state of Illinois for a brief (nearly three years) sojourn, but has recently moved back to the Sooner state to be closer to her logical family.

Prairieland State Series

A Class Act (2016)

Twenty-five-year-old theater grad student Rory Morgan walks into her Intro to Theater class expecting it to be a piece of cake. She isn’t prepared for the diminutive little fireball of a professor who walks in. She is instantly captivated by Dr. Margaret Parks, her forty-year-old professor, and even works up the courage to flirt a little, which Dr. Parks quickly dismisses. After their first class, Rory finds herself thinking about the professor more and more and spends most of her class time watching the professor as she passionately does her job. Rory really wants to ask her out, but she doesn’t know if the professor is even gay, to say nothing of the fact that she’s her professor. What follows is a romance full of humor, passionate awakenings, and college politics. Can they overcome the hurdles that lie before them and still be a class act?

Sweetboy and Wild One(2017)

Graduate student Rachel Cole is feeling the weekend blues and heads to her favorite lesbian hangout, looking for Ms. Right Now. She is immediately attracted to a brown- haired, brown-eyed, flannel-wearing soulful singer named Bobby Layton. But when Bobby introduces himself to Rachel, Rachel questions things about herself–things like her own sexuality and her very identity. Could she be falling for this sweet boy?

Bobby Layton lost a lot when he came out as trans. And he’s sworn off dating lesbians because dealing with hate from the straight world is hard enough. Who needs the drama? But something about wild girl Rachel Cole keeps him coming back.

Love may be enough to take them to unexpected places beyond their expectations.

A Fighting Chance (2018)

Lou Silver is a stage combat instructor by day, and teaches kung fu on the weekends. When Lou meets Staff Sergeant Stephanie “Steve” Adams through one of her kung fu students, Lou can’t resist her instant attraction, even though Steve’s military background stirs old resentments. As Steve battles to break down the walls around Lou’s heart, Lou must come to terms with her past to give love a fighting chance.

Behind the Scenes(2019)

Rachel and Bobby moved to Minnesota so that Rachel could be closer to her best friend Rory, and so that Bobby could leave behind his past in Illinois and start anew. But, one year later and their relationship is on rocky ground, as Rachel struggles with what she feels is the loss of her lesbian identity, and Bobby is plagued with jealousy. Meanwhile, Rory and Maggie are celebrating their second year of marriage together. Rory is ready to start a family, but Maggie is hesitant, as she wants to wait until her career is in a more stable place, which will happen when she achieves tenure. While one relationship is falling apart, another is growing stronger and expanding.